Walking along the Road

4 April 1998

The long day of conferences, colloquia, and finally now even the socializing period, is over. Of course the attendees are still unofficially socializing in the lobby as we wait for the bus, and some must still be upstairs. The attendees have unconsciously grouped themselves into their separate contingents, all of those from Tennessee together, all of those from Pennsylvania, and so on, and the groups are talking amongst themselves, and once in a while to each other. I sit alone on a hard bench by the glass doors watching for the bus to arrive, and it should have ten minutes ago. The waiting makes me nervous, but the attendees seem as if they’d as soon stay here and converse all night. Outside, the streetlights are beginning to flicker on, and in the falling darkness, finally I see the tell-tale light pattern of an approaching bus. I signal to the attendees, and we walk out into the brisk spring evening as the bus pulls up to the curb.

I lead them onto the bus. The attendees sit down in the same groups as in the lobby. I sit in the first seat, and look out the window and back into the building. We wait for the bus to fill up, and the people who are upstairs gradually make their way down and onto the bus. It is pleasant sitting here on the bus, the reassuring hum of the engine, the good-natured conversations, and the parking lights glowing so warmly; it makes me feel loved, hiding in this sanctuary from the surrounding sea of coldness and darkness. Finally, I am sure that everybody has made it down, as just before the bus doors close, someone gets on and sits down next to me. Without even looking, I guess that every other seat must be taken.

Now I hear the air brakes release, the engine vibrations deepen, and I feel the bus smoothly rolling forward. All the while the attendees had made their ways onto the bus, the accumulated noise of their voices has risen in intensity. Now, as the bus starts to move, the attendees seem even to cheer. There is much lightheartedness and merriment; I guess even the academics can get enough of the serious, scientific topics they have discussed all day long. The attendees’ camaraderie reminds me more of the atmosphere of a school bus than any public city bus. All you can do on the bus I ride is stare stolidly out the window or down at the aisle because you don’t know anybody else and in ten or five minutes you will never see that person again so why even bother? You just have to sit there and wonder if you’re sitting too close to the guy next to you, or if it means something if the girl next to you brushes against you as the bus makes a turn too fast and her body applies gentle pressure to yours. But you can’t talk at all, only wonder.

It’s not like that on the attendees’ bus – well, except for me, I guess. Although this is my town, I am the only native passenger, which makes me the outsider. My sole purpose here is to escort the attendees. After we get back to their hotel, I will just unlock my bike, and ride back to that hole in the wall apartment where I dissipate my life away. It is a pretty young woman who has sat down next to me, I now notice, but all I can see of her is her back and long, straight black hair. She is turned completely into the aisle, and is speaking with the guy across from us in another language, probably Ukrainian, but that’s only a wild guess. I’m no expert.

I return my gaze to the window to watch the deep green pines, still empty fields, and farmhouses pass by the bus windows. I wonder that the driver has taken the longer, pastoral route back to the city – I thought I was only one who ever used it. The attendees don’t notice anything special though; they just keep on talking and laughing about the same frivolous things people, even educated people, always talk about. But none of their pettiness can capture my attention; it’s gone again to where it always goes on dark nights when the moon is bright and the stars shine and my face is pressed against the window and I’m feeling all alone.

It leaves me searching, eyes wide but focused in, probing through the blackness for a pair of dark eyes shining back at mine. Not just any eyes, but the only eyes that I could find in such a place: eyes which show a triumphant sadness, a longing, a deeply repressed desire to be understood, a transcending of life’s constraints for ideals, a strength that knows no consequence; a sense, a sympathy of everything about me that makes any words superfluous. And my eyes, if such a pair of eyes were in their sight, my black eyes would spot them like radar. And those eyes would see the same in mine, and we would instantaneously realize it. Our eyes would lock and I would immediately jump from the moving vehicle with whatever consequences that might entail to be united to that for which I ache constantly and cry all night in my dreams.

But there is only darkness between the pines this night and now we have entered the city, with its stores and their glowing neon signs. I know there is no hope amid this carnival of commercialism and greed. The people on the bus are still talking and laughing, and to escape the overwhelming totality, I try to discern separate conversations and voices. I find it impossible. The bus rambles on over the bumpy, oft-travelled pavement of the city streets, and the suspension clatters. The bus windows shake loudly and it seems that they will shatter at any moment. My head bounces violently against the window. The din grows louder and louder. The signs get brighter and gaudier until finally, we arrive at the Grand Hotel. The bus drives right up under the large protective canopy and to the front doorstep. Everyone alights. After seeing them all safely into the building, I tell the bus driver goodnight and leap lightly down to the pavement.

Hitting the asphalt, I shudder to think about riding home several miles through the chilly night air. Immediately, I realize that I can’t remember exactly where I parked and now it’s dark. I hesitate, and the bus driver eyes me with concern. Although it’s probably a lie, I say I’m all right, and then the tireless engine throbs, and she drives the empty bus away. Alone again, for probably an hour I stumble through the vast parking lot, but the bicycle just will not be found. I guess I was too damned stupid to lock up to one of the streetlights so I could find it now. "Well it wasn’t dark when I left it this morning!," I tell myself with sarcastic bitterness. Oh, and I could never think ahead!

When Frustration finally releases me, I realize I am walking down a country road. Things should have started seeming familiar by now – I originally thought I was heading in the direction for home, but now I guess I’m not quite sure. But it doesn’t really matter, for I don’t know where it has brought me, my whole life up to now; don’t like where the human race is going; don’t understand the universe or all that stuff they were talking about at the conference. So I guess it’s not that important if I’m slowly making my way down a country road in the darkness, leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.

But my black eyes are shining brightly as I walk along the road, brushing against the sweeping pines and smelling the open fields. They are intent, searching through the night and into each of the occasionally passing vehicles, for that pair of lonely, yearning eyes like mine.